Holding Cell
by Sam.J.Eller
Summary: The Winchester brothers get into trouble and are forced to spend the night in a holding cell. Sam struggles with memories of his time in the Cage, while Dean does his best to fight off any and all threats to his little brother; be it memories, nightmares, or their cellmate. One-shot. Hurt/Sam and Protective/Dean. Slight tag to 7x17 - The Born-Again Identity.


Note: This takes place shortly after 7.17 The Born-Again Identity. Essentially all you really have to know, is that Cas just recently took the crazy out of Sam's noggin.

Note 2: Again, an apology to those questioning my absence on tumblr. I have not left, and I will return the second I watch the finale...which I will do the moment that life stops kicking my ass! So sorry for the delay babes. I will return. I promise! I hope this fic will help to tide you over until then.

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He was the town drunk.

That wasn't all he was, he was actually a lot more.

He had done a lot more.

He used to be a lot more.

He used to be great.

But no one knew any of that.

No one knew why he did what he did.

No one cared.

All anyone knew - or cared to know - was that Randall Copland spent more time in the small town jail, than any real criminal ever had. In Randall's defense, it wasn't much of a jail, but rather a small holding cell in a room off of the Sheriff's office.

The sixty-seven year old man spent his days drinking himself into a stupor, and by nightfall, he would be passed out in the bar or stumbling down the street. The cops would come pick him up and escort him to the holding cell, or his personal make-shift drunk tank. He would spend the night passed out on one of the metal benches, or finding amusement in whatever drama was occupying the small town.

Some nights Randall would even find himself with a cellmate; more often than not it was a hooligan teenager who had been defacing public property, stealing, or some related misdemeanor. There was also a biker gang in town, and while they were violent, they mostly fought amongst themselves, and usually managed to evade the cops; but every now and again Randall would spend the night seated in a small space with several, large, fuming men. However, the older man never much worried about any sort of threat from the more aggressive cellmates.

He was too old and had seen too much, been through too much, to bother with grown adults who worked so hard to try and come off frightening.

They had no consideration.

No appreciation.

No maturity.

And no respect.

Randall had been through war, a biker gang was nothing by comparison. Needless to say, the older man did not blink at the sound of hollering echoing through the station, or the two very tall men that were being forced into the holding cell. Randall merely roused himself from his intoxicated dose, and sized up his new cellmates.

"We didn't even start the damn fight! You have no right to lock us up in here."

That was the shorter of the two. He was angry, shouting at the officer that was locking them all in together.

"It was those assholes that started it! Why the hell didn't you drag them in here?" The shorter one waved his arms around in furry, standing as close to the bars as he could while he yelled.

Truman (the town drunk knew all the officers by name) gave the shorter man a bland look – the only expression he ever had– and spoke in the same dull tone of voice that he always did.

"Those men are in the hospital, but not to worry, they will be charged once they are conscious."

Randall had spent most of the past decade actively people watching, and did not fail to miss the self-satisfied smirk that flashed on the angry man's face. Clearly, he was none too regretful of the damage he had inflicted upon those other individuals. However, that look of glee vanished as soon as the shorter man glanced at the taller. Randall followed his eyes to see what had so abruptly stolen his joy. Both the men were banged up, their faces bruised and scratched, but the taller of the two appeared to have taken the worse beating. His lip was leaking blood, his left cheek bone was bruised black, there seemed to be bruising around his neck as well; and based on the way he was hunched over, and the long arm he had wrapped around his midsection, there was likely more unseen damage.

The taller man's pain appeared to very much disturb the shorter one, and that was all the evidence Randall required in order to confirm that the two were more than just partners in crime. There was something deeper there, something beyond any sort of gang affiliation or criminal connection, there was something stronger than loyalty that kept the men united.

The shorter man wasn't outraged out of pride that the taller one had been injured. He hadn't sobered so quickly out of sheer respect for his fellow criminal. His cocky joy had diminished because the pain of the man standing at his side, had caused him distress.

He was worried for the taller one.

He was angry for him.

He shared a strong bond with him.

Randall didn't have to wait long to discover what the specifics of that connection were.

"Hey! My brother is hurt. And you are just going to leave him in here to sleep on this hard-ass benches, while those assholes get comfy beds?" The shorter snapped harshly.

Brothers.

That made sense.

Randall literally nodded his head in instant comprehension.

He had never had a brother himself, but he had fought with men that had, he had seen the power of that sibling connection first hand.

It was that past experience that made it easy for Randall to peg the taller brother as the younger one. Physically there was nothing to confirm his assumption. Both the boys looked to be about the same age, and often he would assume the taller one to be the oldest, but – again – Randall had spent much of his time lately people-watching, and was practically an expert. He noticed the way that the taller man seemed to hide behind the older. Randall watched the long body hunch into itself and shrink behind the broad shoulders that were set a couple short steps in front.

"Your brother is fine, the paramedics already checked the two of you out. Just superficial wounds." The officer responded.

"Yeah and I'm sure the treatment they prescribed for bruised ribs, was to spend the night on a metal bench." The shorter man spat back vehemently.

The taller man latched onto his brother's sleeve just below the elbow and tugged it.

Yes, Randall thought to himself, definitely the younger brother.

"Dean, I'm fine." He insisted softly.

The shorter man – Dean – didn't even glance behind him, just shook his head and proceeded to argue.

"And what about his throat, huh? That bastard practically strangled him, what if it swells shut while we are stuck in this damn cell?"

The officer nodded at the words and reached behind him, passing an ice-pack and cloth through the bars.

"The medic assured me that there would be minimal swelling, but he should ice it anyways. I'll bring a cup of ice-chips for him to suck on."

Truman didn't react as Dean snatched the offerings from his hand.

"If you really gave a shit you would let us out of here, so I could take care of him properly." He growled.

The statement of out-right caring had both Randall and Truman's eyebrows rising up in slight surprise, it was rare for the rough types to display such blatant concern for anyone, let alone another full-grown man. Randall noticed a small smile cross the taller boy's face at his brother's words.

Dean paid no mind to any of the reactions, he seemed to have a tremendously one-tracked train of thought.

"We will leave town tonight, won't cause any more trouble, if you let us out of here. Or at least let my brother go, he didn't do nothing."

Truman shook his head in time with the younger brother. "If you can't handle spending a night in lock-up, then don't go around picking fights and trashing bars."

"Those assholes started it!" Dean hollered at Truman's retreating back.

The shorter man stared at the exiting officer until he was out of sight and then released a frustrated huff before turning back to his brother.

Randall didn't fail to notice the way Dean scanned the cell, just the way a soldier would scan a new territory, searching out the threats. His calculating stare remained on the older man briefly, before apparently deciding he was nothing to be worried about, and moving back to his brother. Randall wasn't surprised to see the vibrant green eyes soften the moment they landed on the taller man.

"Alright dude, lets get you settled, because it doesn't look like that sonuvabitch is going to let us out of here until the freakin sun comes up." Dean said, snapping his words in fury by the end or the sentence.

"Dean, relax man. He's just doing his job. It's okay." The taller man assured, his voice raw and raspy, which likely had something to do with the colourful bruises darkening around his neck

"No, it damn well is not okay." Dean shot back. His tone was harsh, but Randall could tell that his touch was nothing but gentle as he herded his brother toward the bench.

The tall man stumbled, tripping over his own feet. Dean caught him just in time to keep him from hitting the ground, taking the boy's weight as though it were nothing, even though the sheer height of the kid would indicate otherwise. However, he was quite thin. The younger man wasn't nearly as bulky as his brother, he appeared to be primarily skin and bones, with little muscle to speak of.

"Take it easy, Sam, sit down before I drop you on your ass."

The taller boy – Sam – let out a pained hiss as he was seated on the bench.

"You'd never drop me." He retorted through clenched teeth.

"Your heavy ass? Damn right I would." Dean declared, even though his reluctance to release the hold he had on his brother's arm – even now that the danger of the kid kissing the floor had passed – depicted an entirely different reality than the one his tongue had claimed

Sam snorted, in what Randall assumed to be disbelief, as he took slow breaths.

Dean placed the cold-pack in his brother's hand, folding his long fingers around it, before nudging it up to the long neck.

"Hold that there." He ordered gruffly.

Sam opened his mouth, in what Randall thought would be a protest, but he didn't have the chance to find out, as the older one spoke again.

"I know your ribs are killing you, dude, but there is no chance of them swelling up and cutting off your air, so keep that on your throat."

Sam must have seen the validity of his brother's point, because he sighed loudly and kept the pack where it was.

Dean used the hand towel to dab away the blood slowly seeping from the younger man's split lip, while Sam held the ice-pack to his neck and gazed around the room. He had done that a few times, Randall had noticed, scanned the small cell, placing a higher degree of focus on each darkened corner. It was as though the boy were looking for something to appear within the small space. The taller man's eyes darted from corner to corner, giving Randall a fleeting look, before moving on.

"Sam." The call was rather soft, considering the deep voice it originated from.

The younger brother focused his attention back on the older, whom appeared to be giving him a knowing look. It would seem as though the shorter man knew what it was that the taller appeared to be in search of. If Randall hadn't already known the two were brothers, that moment of silent communication would have proven it.

"He's not here." Dean declared, staring steadily into Sam's eyes as he pressed the towel against his still-bleeding lip.

The younger boy nodded. "I know. I'm not seeing anything...just-just remembering." He admitted quietly, biting down on his lip as he dropped his gaze.

He seemed ashamed of whatever it was, Randall knew that type of shame; it followed many of those who had post-traumatic stress disorder, soldiers who were haunted by the war and the many horrors if held.

It had been a shame that had clung to many of his friends from the military, the ones who had lived long enough to suffer from PTSD.

It had been a shame that Randall himself still felt from time to time.

A shame that came from not being able to hold yourself together.

A shame that originated from the inability to hide your weakness.

A shame that arose when you failed to depict the realities of your past from those of your present.

A shame that appeared on occasions when the world caught a glimpse into the disassembled chaos that was your mind, or the charred mangled mess that was your soul.

It was a shame that could not be erased, regardless of how legitimate the reasons for your post-traumatic stress disorder happened to be.

It was a shame that was truly understood by few and looked upon with pity by many.

Randall tore his observant eyes from the colouring cheeks of the struggling boy and trained them on the face of his brother. He didn't see any pity in the older man's eyes, what he saw was understanding. What he saw was someone that was not only hurt by the taller man's pain, but someone who understood it on the deepest if levels; either because he was so connected to his kid brother, or because he himself had dealt with that very shame. Randall was thinking it was a combination of the two.

"Hey now, none of that." The deep tone admonished, using the bloodied towel to nudge his brother's face up so it was level with his.

"Sorry, just thought I'd be past all this." The taller man whispered dejectedly.

Randall – without thinking or being noticed - was shaking his head in time with Dean, glad to see the shorter man was in agreement with him.

"It doesn't work like that, dude. You know that."

"I know, but Cas-

"Cas took the crazy out, he didn't wipe the memories." The older declared, sounding very near mournful.

The younger boy nodded shakily, but it was clear even to the stranger in the cell, that the kid was still being far too hard on himself. Apparently, he was not the only one to notice.

"Sammy, what you went through, what the sadistic-fuck did to you, how long you were there, you don't just get over that. Crazy or not, holding cell or not, you don't just forget about it. Give yourself a break, little brother."

Randall watched as the taller man released a dark chuckle.

"You are such a hypocrite." He accused with a derisive snort.

Though the voice was raspy, the elder brother did not miss the bitter comment tossed his way. Dean stalled his ministrations, but only for a short moment, seemingly taken aback by the insult. It was apparent to Randall that the older brother wasn't at all accustomed to the younger man's angry words. The stranger observed silently as Dean clenched his jaw while he dabbed surprisingly gently at this brother's still-bleeding lip. Sam's expression morphed from perturbed to chagrined in one quick moment.

"Sorry, Dean. I didn't mean-

"Yes, you did." The shorter man interrupted gruffly.

Sam sighed tiredly, but did not contradict. "You never give yourself a break, or take it easy on yourself. Not ever." He stated.

The shorter looked as though he were going to object, but was stopped at the stern look his brother dealt him.

Randall had to muffle a snicker at the sight of the young man's face, it was, layered with an excessive level of attitude. It was an expression he was pretty sure he had seen his ex-wife wear from time to time. It was a look that immediately put an end to any and all bullshit. It would appear that it worked just as well on Dean as it always had on Randall.

The elderly man watched as Dean amended his response, supposedly leaving out the lies.

"Yeah, well, I've never been through what you went through."

That response did nothing to appease the taller man, actually, it seemed to anger him all the more, Randall thought, as he saw the thin face colour in - what could only be considered - complete outrage.

"What the hell are you talking about? You went though _exactly_ what I went through." Sam's gravelly voice cracked and scraped, but the amount of disbelief laced through every word could not be missed.

"No, Sam. I didn't." His brother contradicted evenly, though Randall could detect a sliver of grateful appreciation hidden beneath the calm tone.

Sam looked offended by the simple words.

"How could you even think that? What do you-

The remainder of the response was cut off by a coughing fit that over-powered that taller man. He release a choked cry and folded practically in half, as he wrapped his arms around his midsection.

It was at that moment that Randall recalled talk of the young brother's damaged ribs, which would no doubt have been jarred painfully at the hacking coughs that had torn from his previously-abused throat. Randall winced in sympathy as the boy hacked a few more times, curling even further forward and blindly reaching out, his fingers bunching the fabric of his brother's leather jacket the moment they found it.

"Just breathe through it, buddy. Slow, steady breaths." Dean encouraged, once the fit had passed, gently rubbing up and down his brother's long back, as though he could encourage the oxygen to flow through the kid's lungs just as easily.

The younger man dropped his head, resting his forehead against Dean's closest shoulder. Randall could hear that Sam's breathing still contained the occasional hiccup of pain, but he was slowly regaining control

The old man was slightly surprised when Dean not only welcomed his brother's closeness, but dropped his hand onto the back of the boy's neck – below his long brown hair – and squeezed comfortingly. The simple moment taught Randall quite a bit about the brotherhood of the two men and he added it to the little knowledge he had managed to accumulate since their noisy arrival.

"Fuck. That hurt." The young boy whispered, his voice sounding entirely wrecked.

"If you weren't such a stubborn little bitch you could have been saved from all that pain." The older stated, the flippancy of the comment contradicted completely by concerned glimmer of the green eyes and the gentle hand that slid through the brown hair.

Randall squinted across the small space, interested to see how the taller man would take his brother's comment. Sam grated out a small chuckle as he slowly pulled his head off its resting place and sat up.

"If I hadn't saved your ass after you hustled those guys, I would have saved myself a hell of a lot more pain, you jerk."

Randall watched the first genuine smile light up the older brother's face; it was nothing like the cocky grim he had sported earlier, this smile was warm and kind, it made his eyes wrinkle and glimmer with a bright inner-joy and had the corner of his lips pulling up all the way on both sides. It was a smile that erased all the rough edges and the haggard look that came from years of endless struggle. That one grin presented Randall with the picture of a boy who loved goofing around with his little brother, it was so different from the image of a burdened, aggressive man that he had been seeing up to that point.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I totally had everything handled."

"Yeah, six against one. I'm sure you could have taken care of if." Sam snorted sarcastically, allowing his brother to continue dabbing the blood from his lip, but his eyes quickly turned serious as he stared at his big brother.

"Dean." He croaked, placing his hand against the other man's chest, his fingers tapping nervously as he chewed on his bottom lip for a moment.

Dean granted his brother the attention he appeared to be requesting, holding the cloth against his lip as he stared up at him.

"What you went through down there, it's not any less than what I went through. Different maybe, but not less. You know that, right?" Sam insisted, his expression genuine and his hazel eyes looking about twice the size as they had before.

Randall's gaze moved to Dean, wondering what the other boy's response would be. He had heard men comparing war stories before, as well as taken part in such an activity; often they were simply sharing pain, pushing the horror of it all out through their mouths, with the hope that perhaps then it wouldn't hold such a dominant position in their minds. On occasion they were trying to one-up each other, trying to prove that they had it the worse, trying to validate the level of pain they were feeling, as though it needed any sort of justification. In all his years as a struggling veteran, who spent so much time in the company of others like him, Randall had never heard any man proclaim a statement such as the one Sam had made. Minimizing his own trauma by declaring that some else's was equal to it. Which, by the looks of the older brother's expression, was not quite the case.

Dean looked ready to argue, he was in apparent disagreement with Sam's declaration, but he seemed to bite back the objection, taking a deep breath before replying.

"I know that is how you see it, Sammy." He responded diplomatically.

Sam looked unimpressed with that answer, but simply sighed, obviously understanding that he wouldn't be getting any further with that particular argument.

"Your blood drives me fucking crazy."

Sam squinted his eyes at his brother's comment, Randall doing the same as he tried to comprehend such a random statement.

"It won't clot." Dean cleared up, dabbing again at the leaking lip.

Randall hadn't failed to notice how long the shaggy-haired boy's lip had been bleeding. Sam nodded at his brother's words, apparently now understanding what he meant.

"You and Dad were always the fast clotters." Sam stated.

"That's cause we eat real food, not that rabbit shit."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it. It's all the grease that you two coat your arteries with." Sam snorted sarcastically.

Randall found himself smiling at the brotherly banter, it was very seldom that he actually enjoyed his cellmates. The officer returned with the ice-chips he had promised. Randall didn't miss the youngest man's flinch at Truman's noisy entrance.

"Here." He extended his hand through the bars, holding out the ice.

Dean patted his brother's knee before marching across the small space and snatching the cup.

"Took you long enough." He grumbled. Truman made no response as he walked off, but Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dean, he's just—

"Doing his job. I got it, Sam. Although I don't see where in his job description it would say that he has to move at a glacial pace."

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother's response. Randall wasn't sure exactly why, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the older man's choice of vocabulary.

"It probably also doesn't say that he has to bring ice to his detainees, but he did it anyways, so stop being such an asshole."

It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes, as he placed the cup into his younger brother's hand.

"Just suck on those before your damn throat closes up."

Sam popped an ice-chip in his mouth, pushing it into the side of his cheeks before speaking again.

"Like you wouldn't be thrilled, finally getting some peace and quiet."

Dean snorted at the comment.

"Believe me, I would love some silence, but I wouldn't give up you to get it. I've gotten used to having you around, college-boy." The words were said with humour, but the fondness within each syllable was inescapable.

The nickname confused Randall. Sam was definitely the younger brother, but he certainly wasn't college-age. The older man did feel that the boy appeared older than he was – as most soldiers did when they came home…if they came home – but he definitely wasn't still in his early twenties.

The title had the taller man smirking, clearly it was a brother-thing.

"Well that's nice, it only took a few decades." He joked.

Dean smirked in response.

They spent part of the night like that, bantering back and forth. The older constantly telling the younger to suck on more ice, until it had all melted into water, at which point Sam insisted his brother drink up. Dean was barely subtle about fussing over the shaggy-headed boy, every gentle touch was accompanied by a sarcastic quip or joking insult, it was the way of brothers.

It was a few hours into their stay, when the youngest began to fade. Randall had noticed the dark shadows beneath the kid's eyes when he had arrived, he hadn't known at first if they were from the fight or exhaustion. He was now realizing it was sleep deprivation that placed the bruises beneath the hazel eyes, not a fist.

Dean spent a great deal of time convincing his brother to get some rest, but the taller man was very resistant, seeming to be repelled by the mere mention of sleep. Unfortunately, his body did not appear to agree with the decision of his mind.

Hours passed before the older man managed to convince the younger one to at least lay across the bench. Randall watched silently from the other side of the cell as Dean gently guided his brother onto his side, placing the shaggy-head onto his lap. He glared up at Randall's watching eyes, as if he were daring him to say something. The elder man avoided his gaze, his eyes wandering the cell, but his ears remaining focussed on the boys.

"Just try and get some sleep, buddy. You're still recovering. It has only been a few nights since we left the hospital. You need your rest." The shorter one stated softly.

"I know, but the nightmares, I don't want to be back there…again." The boy whispered.

"You haven't had any of those since Cas—

"We're in a cage, Dean. They're coming tonight." Sam said, his voice wavering, but sure.

"Fuck." The curse sounding more like a realization than anything.

They were both silent for some time after that, Randall's eyes skidded back over to spot the youngest clearly asleep as the older boy combed through the long brown hair with his fingers.

"Is there a reason you keep creeping us?" The short-haired one questioned, his tone a dark warning in itself. The younger roused slighted, be it at the volume or timbre of his brother's voice. His movements were quickly stilled as Dean continued to smooth the long hair back, quietly shushing him.

Randall was not surprised, he had been observing the man's blatantly protective nature since the two brothers entered the cell. He knew well enough not to respond to Dean's question, because his enjoyment of people-watching probably wouldn't be a sufficient answer to the angered inquiry.

"Where'd you boys serve?" Randall asked instead, diverting the conversation.

He received a questioning look from the man across the cell.

"I was in Vietnam. Spent most of my life in the war or around others who were lucky enough to make it home. I can spot servicemen from miles away."

The older man watched as Dean continued to calculate him, seeing the acceptance in the green eyes after a moment.

"So, where were you two stationed?" He repeated.

Dean shrugged before responding. "Here and there."

"A bit of everywhere?"

The younger man nodded.

"Together?" Randall wondered aloud.

"Yeah." Dean replied, glancing down at the long frame stretched out next to him.

"You captured together as well?"

The dark gaze that flashed his way was nearly lethal, and if Randall allowed himself to be intimidated by anything anymore, it would have been that.

"I had some friends who were prisoners of war, only two of them got out. I remember how thin they were, the unhealthy colour of their skin, and the black bags under their eyes. I remember how skittish they were, the nightmares, the fear, all of it. Your brother was taken by the enemy." It wasn't so much an inquiry, as it was a fact. Dean responded nonetheless, his eyes no longer threatening.

"Yeah, yeah he was." The man rasped, his green eyes full of more emotion than Randall could begin to calculate, as they gazed down at the head on his lap.

"You were as well?" Randall made the assumption, which was confirmed at Dean's nod.

"Yeah, but it was different. A different time, a different place. He had it worse. Where he was kept, how long he was there…what was done to him. It was all way fucking worse than anything I went through. Anything anyone has ever been through."

The last statement was bold, so bold in fact that Randall nearly felt offended by it. The blanket declaration that the young shaggy-haired man had been through more than _anyone_ , was audacious, to say the least. However, as the seasoned veteran looked down at the slim body stretched across the bench, and examined the sleeping face that – even in its restful state – was lined with an immeasurable degree of pain. The kid looked worn and weary in a way that no man his age ever should. His face of gaunt, his cheekbones looking almost sharp they stood out so far. His limbs were too thin and his skin colourless. Even in an unconscious state, the boy looked like a victim of the cruellest of circumstances. As if to prove Randall's own ponderings, Sam began to keen and whimper in his sleep. The sounds were so impossibly broken and desperate, that Randall was about to jump up and rescue the young man from whatever horrors were tormenting his mind, but Dean beat him to it.

"Hey, woah, buddy. Wake-up, kiddo. Come on Sammy." The older boy demanded, sliding down onto his knees, taking his brother's head in his hands.

It took a little more prompting and a loud order, until Sam actually came out of it. He came to with a scream, which was quickly cut off by a gasp. His long fingers latched on to his brother, as urgent speech tumbled off his lips.

"Dean, please. Please, you have to leave! He's coming back. He'll hurt you! Please go!"

Randall felt overwhelmed by the kid's panic, his unabashed need to get his brother away from whatever danger he thought to be real. He saw in Sam the same protective nature that had been so blindingly obvious in Dean.

"Hey, Sam, buddy. No one is coming. He's not here. Okay? That bastard is down in hell where he belongs. It's just you and me, here. You're safe, Sammy."

The hysteric man began to calm at his brother's reassurances. He stopped heaving in air, but his body remained coiled as his gaze swept the room. When it landed Randall, his eyes expanded and he flinched violently.

That brief glance of the hazel eyes, stole Randall's breath away. There was an unbearable level of terror and trauma, a haunted look that sent a shiver down the old man's spine. He thought he had seen it all, thought he knew it all, had heard it all, but those eyes introduced Randall to a whole new level of agony. A degree of suffering he had never witnessed. That brief glance into those expressive eyes, was all it took to cause the veteran to tear up, something he hadn't done in over a decade, not even on his drunkest of nights.

"Dean." Sam nearly sobbed, nodding his head toward the man across the cell.

"Alright, okay. So it's you, me, and that old dude over there. That's it. And don't even worry about him, the man is harmless, I can smell the booze from here. I'd doubt if he could even stand up for more than a few seconds, before having a meet-and-greet with the concrete.

Randall scowled, but made no remark, having no interest in further frightening the already-traumatized kid.

Sam's gaze didn't waver from his brother as he nodded at the information, accepting it as truth. He trusted him without question, believing Dean, even when his mind was telling him an entirely different story; which was something Randall knew to be true, his own experience with PTSD had taught him as much. Such an extensive amount of trust was a rare occurrence, particularly in veterans, whose brain's told them lie after lie; or other people who had experienced the wicked ways of the world, and were expected to be able to find enough good in it again to be able to trust anyone but themselves.

Trust, or lack thereof, had been part of the reason for Randall's divorce, years ago. He had seen the travesties of man, the ruthless, hateful things they could do. He had witnessed the evil ways of life, had experienced how unfair and sadistic it could be. He had come home from the war, not only suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but a changed man, a bitter man who could no longer see the light through the darkness. His wife, Molly, had naturally grown tired of his ways. Randall never once blamed her for leaving, if anything he couldn't seem to comprehend why she stayed as long as she did.

He spent his days wallowing in the pains of his past, never once searching for help, or a way out of the shadows of his depression. Instead, Randall chose to drink his pain away, as foolish as it was, it was the only way he could manage to cope. If he ever really gave it much thought, he would regret the way he dealt with things, or rather didn't deal with them. He would regret allowing his pain to kill his marriage. He would regret not fighting harder to save himself. But, luckily, Randall never spared much thought for himself; that was why he spent so much time watching other people, focussing on them, as a means of ignoring his own mounting issues.

He watched as Sam fought to put himself back together, and Dean knelt in front of him, keeping a hand on his chest. Their eyes were locked. Dean was softly promising the younger man that he was safe, and Sam was absorbing each and every word. He was hanging onto his brother, had his fingers wrapped in his clothing, as though he feared being ripped away. Randall felt like an intruder for viewing such an emotional moment between the two, so much so that he averted his gaze out of respect for the brothers.

Randall didn't look back over until a few more moments had passed. Dean was back on the bench, and Sam was resting across his legs. The older boy was leaning over the younger, laying his leather coat over top of the thinner frame.

"How you doing, Sammy?"

The inquiry was so quiet, that Randall had to strain to hear it.

"Cold, always cold. The cage … it was always cold." The haunted whisper floated across the cell, as Sam tried to curl his long legs up underneath the jacket.

Dean's hands rubbed up and down his brother's arm and back, attempting to generate warmth. The cell was a little chilly, but it wasn't frigid or anything. Randall figured the boy's body temperature had more to do with memories than reality.

"The cold made everything worse, the loneliness, the fear, the pain. It made everything worse and it never went away."

"Don't worry, Sammy. You're not there anymore. You're here with me. I'll have you warmed up in just a minute, buddy. I promise." The crack in the normally-steady voice had Randall's frown deepening.

"I'm so tired." Sam whimpered.

Randall couldn't see any tears, but he guessed there were at least a few, based on the way Dean slid his thumb across his brother's cheekbone.

"I know. Just close your eyes and get some sleep. I'm right here. I'll keep you safe." It was more than comforting words, the older man could hear the depth in the statement. He heard it for the promise that it was.

Eventually, Sam quieted, and his breathing was levelled out, but his body continued to shiver on occasion. Randall could only watch it go on so long before he slid out of his jacket and sauntered across the small space. He confirmed that the youngest was – in fact – asleep, because he did not move or frighten at the stranger's approach. Dean, however, tensed right up.

"Stay the hell away from him." It may have been spoken in a whisper, but that didn't make it any less lethal.

Randall didn't dare move any closer, but stood where he was and held the article of clothing out towards the brothers. Dean did not make a move to grab the object, he simply stared at the individual it belonged to, warning him not to make a move on the young man resting across his lap.

"It's for the boy. I can see his shivers from across the cell." The old man stated, shaking the coat insistently.

The elder brother appeared sceptical, but another hard shiver from the thin body in his arms, made up his mind. He reached out, accepting the jacket and spreading it out over Sam's long legs.

"Thanks." He mumbled gruffly.

Randall nodded, not requiring the apology, and moved back to his designated seat.

"He have nightmares like that a lot?" He questioned.

The green eyes focussed on him again, they went through the stages, defensive, accusing, and calculating, before finally softening into a reluctant resignation.

"Not so much. There was a long time where he couldn't get any sleep at all, so he's been sleeping really well now that he can finally close his eyes without…" The man faded off, clearly not being able to or not wanting to describe the situation that his brother had been in.

He began running his fingers through the long brown hair, before continuing.

"I think it's the cell. It remind him of the cage he was kept in for a long time. It reminds him of being down there. Ever since he got back, he hasn't done well in confined spaces." Dean mumbled darkly, sounding

"Makes sense." Randall nodded, acquiring enough information from the vague description to know that the kid was obviously kept in strict confinement during his capture.

Dean's gaze travelled back up to meet his, appearing almost appreciative of the comment.

"You're good at dealing with him." Randall acknowledged, although the other man didn't seem to welcome it like he thought he would.

"There is nothing to deal with. This kid saved a world that has done nothing but shit on him his entire life. He spent a longer time than you can even imagine, being tortured in ways that would make you piss yourself just to _hear_ about. He sacrificed _everything_ , and got jack-all in return. If he has a few nightmares or some trouble with small spaces because of that, that isn't some fucking _problem_ to _deal_ with. It is just a new fact of our lives."

"I didn't mean to—

"I don't care what the hell you meant. There is nothing _wrong_ with my brother. So stop looking at him like he's some animal in a zoo." Dean seethed.

Randall was taken aback by the younger man's anger. His mouth opened and closed but he couldn't even find the words to defend or explain himself. He found himself simply nodding compliantly under Dean's dangerous gaze. He had thought he could never again be intimidated after the things he had been through in his life, but he'd been wrong. The man sitting across from him – who must have been close to half Randall's age – had a dark side. He had a murderous rage inside of him that was just now coming through and it was more frightening than anything the old man had ever encountered. Randall had seen a violent, rebellious young man when Dean had been brought into the cell. Soon after that he had witnessed the caring, protective big brother. Now, he was staring into the face of a man who would viciously tear him to pieces without thought, if he made a move or spoke a single word against the boy sleeping on the bench. Randall did his best not to shrink away from the vibrant green eyes that were promising a savage demise.

Luckily, the younger man stirred, his long fingers reaching out blinding until they found Dean's hand, which he then pulled into his chest. The town-drunk couldn't hear the words that Sam murmured as he gripped his brother's hand, but they seemed to soothe the older man to some degree. His gaze softened as it fell away from Randall, and his free hand returned to combing through the long brown hair askew on his lap.

He did not speak to the boys again that night, he drifted off after a while, before he was woken up once more. This time, it was a strangled cry that shocked him into consciousness. He observed subtly and silently in the dark, as Dean soothed his brother, very much the same way he had before, with soft promises and gentle contact. He overheard at bit of whispered conversation once Sam had returned to reality. He heard enough to know that the "cage" was a treacherous place, of which the young man had been sure he would never escape. He heard Dean vowing that the "bastard" would never get his hands on Sam again. He heard Sam assuring his brother that whatever it was that happened to him was not his fault. He heard Dean's scoff at such a statement. He heard Dean express displeasure towards the amount of weight his brother had lost, and his comment that Sam would need to eat more than "damn rabbit food" to get his strength back. He heard the younger boy chuckle in reply.

He listened silently to the conversation, hearing the reassurances, promises, recollections, and bickering. He heard all the little bits and pieces, but more than anything, he heard two brothers that had a selfless love for each other.

At the bar tomorrow night, when Randall would go and tell his fellow veterans of the boys who spent the night in the cell. He wouldn't talk about how incredibly tall they were, or how one or both of them clearly suffered from some level of PTSD. He wouldn't talk about the phone number he found atop his folded jacket, when he woke up in the morning to an empty cell. He wouldn't talk about the horror that could be found in Sam's nightmares, or the feral rage that was hidden beneath Dean's rebellious demeanour.

He would talk of two soldiers, two brothers, who had a bond stronger than he had ever seen before. He would talk about the way the younger trusted the older without reservation, and the immeasurable level of admiration that Dean had for Sam.

He would speak of two young men who were going to make it.

Who wouldn't end up sitting old and alone at the bar, working to drown out their memories and pain.

Who wouldn't spend every night in a holding-cell, because they couldn't cope with the trauma of their past.

Who wouldn't spend each and every day examining the lives of others, in an effort to escape their own miserable existence.

The two brothers that, regardless of the travesties that marred their souls, would be okay, because they had each other.

Because they could trust each other.

Because they could depend on each other.

Because they understood each other.

They would make it because they were willing to fight for one another.

Fight the fear.

Fight the memories.

Fight the PTSD.

Fight the biker gangs.

They were even willing to take on that harmless old man in the corner of a holding-cell.

They would do it all for each other.

Their selfless brotherhood.

 _That_ was what would get them through.

 **The End**

* * *

Note: Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate it. I would love to know your thoughts/comments/reviews, so please leave one if you have a moment. I would also like to know if anyone would be interested in a fic about the boys in foster care. I asked the same question on my _More Than Enough_ update, but did not receive too much interest. I am working to update the 3 chapter fics that I still have going, and am also thinking about writing a foster care one...What do you think I should work on next? - Sam


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